“The sick man, evidently more startled by the violence of the manner than by the words themselves, looked from one to the other of us all round the table.
“'Forgive me, old fellow,' burst in Towers, with an attempt to laugh; 'but the whole of this day, I can't say why or how, but everything irritates and chafes me. I really believe that we all eat and drink too well here. We live like fighting-cocks, and, of course, are always ready for conflict.'
“We all did our best to forget the unpleasant interruption of a few minutes back, and talked away with a sort of over-eagerness. But Hawke never spoke; there he sat, turning his glazed, filmy look from one to the other, as though in vain trying to catch up something of what went forward. He looked so ill—so fearfully ill, all the while, that it seemed a shame to sit carousing there around him, and so I whispered to Collins; but Towers overheard me, and said,
“'All wrong. You don't know what tough material he is made of. This is the very thing to rally him,—eh, Godfrey?' cried he, louder. 'I 'm telling these fellows that you 'll be all the better for coming down amongst us, and that when I've made you a brew of that milk-punch you are so fond of—'
“'It won't burn my throat, will it?' whined out the sick man.
“'Burn your throat! not a bit of it; but warm your blood up, give energy to your heart, and brace your nerves, so that before the bowl is finished you 'll sing us “Tom Hall;” or, better still, “That rainy day I met her,”—
“That rainy day I met her,
When she tripped along the street,
And, with petticoat half lifted,
Showed a dainty pair of feet.”
“'How does it go?' said he, trying to catch the tune.
“A ghastly grin—an expression more horrible than I ever saw on a human face before—was Hawke's recognition of this appeal to him, and, beating his fingers feebly on the table, he seemed trying to recall the air.
“'I can't stand this any longer,' whispered Wake to me; 'the man is dying!'